


Always Was

by pluckybucky



Series: Another Time, Another World [2]
Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: M/M, hhhh, lets get gay in this chilis tongith boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 11:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/pseuds/pluckybucky
Summary: ‘Maybe, someday, both of you will open up to each other, and learn you’re both diamonds in the rough, soon to be twinkling brightly in the pink sun, like the stars in the night sky,’





	Always Was

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Danny,” Cliff Steele finally says, relaxing over a table with his chin rested on the palm of his hand.

 

The typewriter clicks away yet again, invisible fingers tapping quick as a fox. ‘Why not, love,’ Danny says, ‘it certainly seems that way,’

 

Cliff rolls his eyes, his large jaw shifting to the side as he sighs. “I ain’t into him like that. He’s my friend, Danny, nothing more,” Cliff rolls his chair away from the typewriter, towards the door.

 

Danny, unconvinced, has the desk lamp shifted to the wall, projecting their response. ‘You talk about him a lot,’ the message begins, ‘More than the others!’ 

 

A strange sound comes from Cliff’s speakers, a groan as he rises from his seat. “I don’t got anything interesting to say about the others, I actually  _ know  _ them,” Cliff explains, “Larry, though, I ain’t got a fucking clue.” 

 

As Cliff pushes the door open, he steps onto the sidewalk, looking down at the newspaper under his boot. ‘Whatever you say, love,’ The headline reads, ‘Say hello to the rest for me!’ 

 

“Yeah,” Cliff sighs, “You got it, Danny.”

 

In this time, this world, Cliff Steele saunters down Danny Street with his back hunched, head hung low, hands shoved into his pockets. The colorful surroundings that is Danny is somewhat giving Cliff whiplash, a stark contrast to the usual dreary colors of Doom Manor, everyone greets him with a smile, and everything is right. Cliff’s not too sure if he likes it, or hates it, but Danny doesn’t seem too bad. It was Victor who first brought up Danny, the talking street, with slight confusion over the dinner table, and it was Larry who expanded on the story. That, however, was a long time ago. In this time, Cliff is alone, walking down Danny Street with his head hung low, back towards the small, rusted, no good bus that is his ride. 

 

On the way towards the bus, he notices the metal rack behind the bus. “What is it now, Danny?” Cliff asks out loud, approaching it. There’s a comic, alone and lonely, asking to be taken. Cliff hesitates, but takes it, wrinkling it in his metal grasp. “What the Hell is this?”

 

‘A list of things you have said about,’ The subheading reads on the side of the cover, all huddled in a jagged bubble. Cliff’s eyes hover over the large, decorated title, ‘LARRY TRAINOR!’ the cover image is an amusing recreation of Cliff himself, drawn in the style of one of those old comic books Cliff would steal as a kid, staring at a rather hyperbolic take on Larry, with a Superman-like chest puffed out. 

 

Cliff scoffs, throwing the comic behind him, but the wind picks it back up, slamming against his leg. “This ain’t funny, Danny,” He growls, kicking his leg out, but the wind only slams the comic back into him. “Fine, I’ll take it,” Cliff finally says, snatching the comic, certainly wrinkling the poor thing. In no time, he’s boarding the bus, the comic stashed away in his coat, and hands a little too tight around the steering wheel.

 

The ride isn’t too lasting, Danny having relocated a little bit closer to the Doom Patrol’s location, and when Cliff rides into the parking lot, the sun’s still out, poking through the puffy white clouds. As Cliff steps out of the bus, a bag in hand, though something catches his eye on the patio of the manor. 

 

“Hey, Cliff,” Victor greets, sitting up on one of the steps to the manor, “You’ve been out for awhile.” 

 

“Yeah,” Cliff answers, slowly making his way towards Vic. “What’re you doing out here?” 

 

Vic shrugs. “It’s a nice day,” Is his response, “Nice and quiet.” 

 

Cliff chuckles as he folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah, too damn rare around here.” 

 

Vic laughs. “Tell me about it. You talk to Danny?” 

 

“Yup, I’m not ever gonna get used to talking to them.” 

 

Vic leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Why’d you go out, anyways?” He asks.

 

Cliff dangles the plastic bag in his palm in front of Victor. “Paint stuff, for Jane.”

 

“Just paint?” Vic asks, eyebrow raised. 

 

Cliff shrugs. “Yeah. Just paint, then I got distracted by Danny. They really like talking your ear off,” Cliff pauses. “Well, not talking, you know what I mean.”

 

Vic snorts, a funny kind of laugh. “Yeah, sounds like our Danny.”

 

Cliff begins to walk up the steps, staying on the left to avoid colliding with Vic. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.” 

 

When Cliff heads to Jane’s room, he knocks on the door, and when it’s opened, pigtails bouncing, Cliff holds the bag out and asks Babydoll to set them somewhere Jane would see. 

 

“Thanks, Babydoll,” Cliff says, his voice like a warm smile.

 

“Bye-bye,” Babydoll sings, bag in her hand, nails painted sloppily pink and blue. 

 

As Babydoll shuts the door behind her, and Cliff turns towards his room, his eyes go to the swaying coat and light steps towards him. 

 

“Hey, Larry,” Cliff greets, watching as Larry carries a potted plant in his bandaged grasp. 

 

Larry nods his head. “Hello, Cliff,” He responds, a nearly chipper tone surprising Cliff. 

 

“I met your best friend, the talking street,” Cliff announces, hands in his back pockets. 

 

“Danny?” Larry asks.

 

“You know a lot of talking streets, of course it’s Danny.” Cliff responds, sarcasm dripping. 

 

“Well, alright. Glad to see you met him, but I have things to do.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“I’ll talk to you later, Cliff.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

Abandoned and alone and lonely, Cliff waves goodbye to Larry’s back, disappearing behind a wall, plant in hand, and Cliff continues staring. 

 

And now, Cliff stands in his room, not very decorated and echo-y, a singular room made from two, the wall broken down in the middle to make way for the large toy car track. He sits on the only seat in the room, a chair set in front of the desk with nothing but a laptop with a fist in it. 

 

Hands around the comic, fingers digging into the paper, red eyes illuminating against the glossy cover. ‘Things you have said about Larry Trainor,’ it says, ‘Things you have said about Larry Trainor’ 

 

And then he opens it.

 

‘Cool,’ A panel reads, ‘Badass,’ says another, ‘My friend, I wish I could know more about him,’ Eyes scan the first page over and over again. ‘I don’t think he knows his worth, I am worried about him, I care about him,’ 

 

The next page is a story, a recreation of a story Cliff told Danny, of a fight with a villain, where Cliff protected Larry.

 

The words on the side, so-called author notes, is what catches Cliff’s eye. ‘Cliff, printed words cannot convey the amount of emotion in your voice. I believe you care more about Larry than you let on,’

 

When he flips the page, there’s an illustrated take on the event, Larry leaning on Cliff, clutching his side. ‘Thanks for saving me,’ a speech bubble with spikes reads, coming from Larry’s mouth. 

 

The author notes continue. ‘It’s okay to care, Cliff, to love. You just have to admit it,’ 

 

“What do you know about anything?” Cliff grumbles.

 

With a page flip, Cliff narrows his eyes. ‘I know a lot, I know how to be upfront about who I am, to be proud, and I know how to love openly, something I think you could do with knowing,’ Cliff’s printed copy says as he punches a large monster in the face, the other arm holding a fawning Larry.

 

Cliff doesn’t want to continue reading. “I don’t love him,” He says. “I don’t.”

 

Moving his thumb, reveals a hidden speech bubble, ‘Then, why are you so afraid?’ Printed Larry says, not real. Cliff tilts his head. 

 

“What?”

 

He turns the page. ‘Allow me to illustrate,’ A speech bubble reads, and each panel is identical, Cliff with his back turned, Larry staring at him. ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Printed Cliff says, over and over again. He turns the page again, this time Larry with his back turns, saying ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ forever and forever, knowing he never will fulfill that promise. Another page turn, and Printed Cliff is staring back at him. ‘Maybe, someday, both of you will open up to each other, and learn you’re both diamonds in the rough, soon to be twinkling brightly in the pink sun, like the stars in the night sky,’ 

 

That’s the last page. Cliff slams it back onto the desk, hearing the desk creak under his power. 

 

He doesn’t love Larry Trainor, each  glance, every stare from the robotic husk, face unchanging yet conveying the words he could never say, meaning nothing. 

 

In another time, days past the comic book, Larry holds a hand over his heart, metallic walls caving around him like some kind of metaphor, the only light escaping from the soul, slipping past his fingers and glowing through the darkness. 

 

In this time, there’s a dream, Larry sees Cliff, his metal face unchanging, yet to Larry, it’s a smile, hand over hand, heart over heart, fingers running against the small of Larry’s back, metal rusted and ruined. They’re nowhere, yet somewhere, a white void that to Larry in that moment, is his room. Cliff slowly lifts the goggles off of Larry’s face, backing him up, and soon Larry’s back is against the wall, no, a bed, eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering closed, coat open, heart open, palms opened, what was Cliff, real and metal, now a human with a face Larry has never seen, and so doesn’t exist, lips against Larry’s throat, skin unruined, turtleneck now flannel opened, chest bare, body against body, heart against heart, mouth against mouth, breathing hard, flesh against flesh, an engine that never stops coming.

 

“Cliff,” Larry says. He notices the change in hand texture, once an unknown feeling, now something he knows, he remembers. “John,”

 

And he wakes up.

 

Garbage.

 

And he’s absolute garbage.

 

In the mirror, he sees every detail of his bandages, the dirtied fabric against horrible, horrible ruined skin. He’s garbage, unchangeable, unperfect, never to be seen by anyone. He touches his throat, gentle and faint, breathing hard, the lasting dream burned into him.

 

“Did you do that,” He asks into the nothingness. There’s never an answer, no glow, nothing.

 

He breathes harder, shaking, fingers still against his throat, terrified as he avoids the truth that the spirit in him had no part in his dream. 

 

It’s all Larry, wanting, yearning, he wants it, the touch he can never have, metal, nor flesh, red eyes staring into him eternally, the gentle reminder of what he is unable to do.

 

And then he leaves his room, walls clinging, caving, the only solitude Larry has, and he crawls out.

 

“Larry?” Rita asks, hand against fabric, the fabric of Larry’s shoulder, and Larry cowers under her, “What’s wrong?” 

 

Voice clear, hiding any sense of identity, fear, anything, “I’m fine,” he says, answer ringing hollow, “I’m fine,” forever unfine. 

 

“You’re a very bad liar,” Rita responds. “Did something happen?”

 

“No,” Larry says, “I don’t want to talk, Rita,” 

 

In another time, Larry sees Cliff, and Cliff sees Larry, but neither say hello, and they only brush shoulders. Cliff says sorry, and Larry, fragile, threatens to shatter. 

 

And in another time, far from that one, when Larry wanders into a blue painted room, the typewriter mechanically chirps away.

 

‘Dear,’ Danny writes, ‘You look awful. Are you okay?’

 

“What do you mean, Danny? I look the same.” 

 

‘Not to me, Larry, not to me. Sit down, please,’ 

 

Larry sits.

 

‘What has gotten you so riled up?’

 

Larry shifts uncomfortably.

 

‘Larry,’ 

 

“I feel like I’m falling apart.”

 

‘Why is that, love?’ 

 

“I don’t know, Danny. I don’t know.” 

 

Hands in his lap, fingers interlocked tightly, body tense, Larry stares into the nothingness.

 

“Some part of me wants to be happy, but I know I don’t deserve it. I can’t have what I want, nobody can.”

 

‘Why do you say that?’ Danny asks.

 

“Look at me. I am nothing, a freak.” 

 

‘You are a diamond, Love, trapped in stone. You should open your eyes, at the people digging you free,’ 

 

“You know I hate those metaphors,” 

 

‘Sorry, Larry, but it’s true. You are worthy of love, just as everyone else is. Cliff considers himself a nothing, a freak, too,’

 

Larry looks up.

 

‘Would you say the things you tell yourself to Cliff? Or to anybody else who feels the same way as you do?’ 

 

Tight in his chest, tight and tighter, he clutches. 

 

‘You are a diamond, and there is somebody digging you out of the rough, you simply have to take his hand.’

 

As Larry gets up, turning towards the door, hand opening the door slowly, he turns around, face unchanging. “Danny, why did you say ‘His’? Who are you talking about?”

 

‘I don’t spill my secrets, dear,’ 

 

When he leaves the room, Cliff’s outside, hands in his pockets, foot and back resting against the colorful wall.

 

“Hey, Lar,” He says, and Larry’s chest is a little tighter.

 

_ Flesh against flesh, lips against Larry’s exposed throat, _

 

“Cliff,” Larry acknowledges. “Were you waiting for me?”

 

_ body against body, heart against heart, mouth against mouth, breathing hard, flesh against flesh, _

 

“Yeah, I ain’t got anything to do, might as well just stand around.”

 

_ ‘Cliff, Cliff,’ Larry whispers, eyes forever shut, eyelashes fluttering. _

 

“You wouldn’t rather be with anybody else? Jane, Rita, Victor,” 

 

_ ‘I love you, I love you,’ a declaration never hollow, meaning everything, _

 

“Come on, I rarely ever see you around,” 

 

_ “I love you, Cliff Steele,” _

 

“Well, alright, Cliff,”

 

_ fingertips graze the small of Larry’s back, _

 

“Finally, I get to learn what the Hell you actually like to do for fun. Let’s get out of here,” Cliff reaches out, touching Larry’s back, palm opened against his shoulder blade in a way that makes Larry’s eyes flutter shut, fragile, threatening to shatter.

 

_ “I love you, too,” _

 

“Okay,” Larry agrees, breathing a little harder, and Cliff leads them out of the store, away from the backroom where a typewriter sits, no eyes, yet all-seeing.

 

The movie theater, where everything is showing, is where they wander. 

 

When they sit, they sit next to each other, the theater empty, projector lighting up.

 

Mentally arguing over Casablanca and Footloose, the projector shows a crossroad, alone in a movie theater, watching Grease, 70's cheese, a romance story.

 

Cliff looks at Larry, yet Larry doesn’t look back.

 

_ ‘I want to know more about him,’ a speech bubble reads. _

 

Cliff reaches out.

 

_ ‘I worry about him,’ _

 

Rusted, ruined metallic flesh reaching for the fabric of Larry’s shoulder.

 

_ ‘I care about him,’ _

 

Arm pulled back, returned to where it belongs, Larry never noticing, Cliff shrinks.

 

_ ‘I love him,’ something never said in the comic, something that will only stay locked away. _

 

In another time, far, far past this one, after saving the day, bloodied and bruised and alive, after saving the day, Larry wants to escape, and Cliff takes Larry’s upper arm into his grasp, eyes staring into him, grip tight, jaw giving a metallic, gentle clank as Cliff closes his mouth. Almost dying, yet alive, Larry could’ve died, yet they live, Cliff could’ve died, yet they live. Victor assesses damages, Jane rests a hand on Rita’s melting shoulder, and they live.

 

“Just,” Cliff pants, “I thought we were going to die. You can’t just act like everything’s fine.” Cliff leans forward. “That’s just not right,” 

 

Larry stays motionless.

 

“I don’t want to die alone,” Cliff says, leaning more and more. “Let me have this.”

 

Larry stays motionless.

 

And Cliff rests his head against Larry’s, cold, unfeeling metal against bandages, warm, nothing like a kiss, yet still desperate, hands gripping Larry’s arms, Cliff shivers, unable to kiss, unable to emote, unable to feel, a shell unable to love because he doesn’t think he deserves it.

 

Nobody is staring, Rita steals a single glance, and Larry fears them all staring.

 

And when this ends, when Cliff’s terrified shakes end, when he comes to his senses, pulling away from Larry, who feels empty at the sudden disappearance of touch, Cliff apologizes, and that’s not what Larry wants.

 

And when this ends, neither speak to each other.

 

In a perfect world, Cliff and Larry are real, and they are allowed to be Cliff and Larry, together, kissing like real people, feeling like real people, living like real people, never chained to this world, never forced under the thumb of the Chief, only Cliff and Larry, allowed to love.

 

This isn’t a perfect world.

 

In this world, in this time, when the Doom Patrol stumbles back into their home, Cliff and Larry escape into their rooms, their names allowed to be together in a love story, but as individuals are forever apart.

 

Hours into the night, in Cliff’s room, Cliff sits motionless at his desk with nothing but a laptop with a fist in it. 

 

But, a light enters, blue and static, electric, hand first, then body.

 

“Jesus-” Cliff says, jumping back from his seat, watching it fall to the ground with a slam, “Fuck!” 

 

The spirit floats, arms and legs too long for a human shape. 

 

“Uh,” Cliff says, “What the fuck?”

 

It reaches out, fingers jagged, it reaches out and it’s hand fades through Cliff’s body, through Cliff’s hollow heart, no organs, only wires, and for a moment, it’s intrigued.

 

Cliff feels a shock.

 

Then it leaves, Cliff abandoned, left confused, bewildered, curious.

 

The spirit fades back into where it belongs, and Larry dreams. 

 

“You deserve this,” John says.

 

“I know,” Larry responds, defeated, powerless.

 

“You deserve,” Larry fills in the blank, but anything he thinks is wrong. “To be loved.”

 

Years of responses destroying Larry bit by bit, accusations of being a monster, horrible, a freak, never to be loved.

 

John, who isn’t John, tells him, “You deserve to be loved, it’ll be okay,” 

 

And when Larry wakes up, he cries, his heart lighting up the room, metal walls caving in on him, cold and ruthless, mimicking the warm, rusted metal of a hand threatening to touch him.

 

Cliff sits, hand on his chest, he sits silently, motionless. 

 

Each attempt to speak, each hand reaching out to Larry, each time being dismissed, either by Larry or himself, he’s held back. 

 

He’s a machine, no heart, no love.

 

But, the spirit, hand tangled in Cliff’s chest, saw something in him, no heart, yet feeling. The spirit didn’t reel back, didn’t rip his wiring out one by one, the spirit stared at him, vacant eyes filled with lightning, hand in Cliff’s heart, and for a second, for a moment that terrifies Cliff like nothing else.

 

Cliff felt the gentlest shock in his heart, in his soul, the Spirit’s hand in his heart like a reminder that he is still human.

 

_ ‘It’s okay to care, Cliff, to love. You just have to admit it,’  _

 

His hand clutches at the fabric of his shirt. 

 

Eyes like a replay, showing memories, as Cliff’s eyes frantically jerk around, his hand on his heart.

Hands around Kate’s waist, smiling, still human, both laughing, still human, a perfect world, they love each other, the race car speeds by, Cliff’s eyes on Larry, ‘Let me have this,’ he says, face against face, unable to kiss, still human, the race car speeds by, fingertips brushing against the small of Kate’s back, fingers human, then metal, Kate stares at him through goggles, not Kate, the race car speeds by, ‘Kiss me,’ a voice says, ‘Love me,’ a voice says, the race car speeds by and it speeds by and it speeds by, Cliff smashes his lips against Kate’s, hands on her face, the race car speeds by, Cliff smashes his lips against Larry’s, hands on his face, the race car speeds by, ‘I love you,’ Cliff says, ‘I love you,’ Cliff says, ‘I love you,’ Cliff says, the race car speeds by. 

 

“Fuck this,” Cliff says.

 

Larry holds his head, legs crossed over each other on his bed. 

 

There’s a door knock, a knocking at the door, and Larry is torn away from solitude, and the room is suddenly a little brighter.

 

“Larry,” Cliff announces. “It’s Cliff.” 

 

Larry gets up from his small bed, and when he looks at the door, it’s suddenly miles away.

 

He opens the door, hand blocking anyone from entering. “What,” He asks.

 

Cliff pushes him out of the way, storming into his room. “I’m going to talk, and you’re gonna listen and then I’m going to leave,” Cliff rants.

 

Larry stares. “What the Hell, Cliff,” 

 

“I need to say this, if I don’t say it now, I won’t say it ever,” 

 

Larry keeps staring.

 

Cliff moves like stone, stiff and strange, pacing and pacing, the race car speeds by, an engine that never stops coming.

 

“I was such a bad fucking person, I didn’t love my wife right, and I can’t change that,” He says, “That isn’t me now, I want to be better, I have to be better, but I, I thought that I was a fucking robot, or some shit, I couldn’t love, or be loved, like I’m some fucking freak, and I thought I was wrong for wanting to love somebody. I want to be better, I need to be better, and I want to love, and, when I see you, I see my first friend in a long fucking time, and I like hearing you talk, and I worry about you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you, and I have no idea what I’m doing,”

 

Larry is staring, and he’s shaking, and shaking more. He wants Cliff to stop, but needs to hear this.

 

“I’m so fucking lonely all the time, and, and I need to know somebody else cares, I don’t want to die alone, Larry, I don’t want to die alone, or if I’m some fucked up thing that can’t die, I don’t want to be alone forever.”

 

Cliff reaches out.

 

“I think I love you. I really do,” 

 

Larry’s not speaking, and he’s shaking, and he can’t breath, and he’s crying, and his knees are buckling.

 

“Fuck,” Cliff breathes without lungs. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m- fuck. Larry, I’m sorry. I’m, I don’t know- I, uh- I’ll leave,”

 

The hand digging Larry free is being pulled away.

 

Larry has to reach out and take it.

 

“Cliff,” Larry says.

 

Cliff freezes. “Huh?”

 

“Say it again,” Larry begs.

 

“What?”

 

“Say it again,” Larry repeats, desperate.

 

“I love you.” 

 

Larry sobs. He can’t say it back, but when he reaches out, a bandaged, damaged hand on Cliff’s no-heart, Cliff understands.

 

Maybe this isn’t a perfect world, but it is a better world. 

 

In a perfect world, Cliff can kiss Larry, feel Larry’s heartbeat under his hand, feel his skin, lips against lips, flesh against flesh, and in a perfect world, Larry can shrug off years of trauma, of fear, anxiety, hatred.

 

But, this is this world, and in this world, Cliff holds Larry’s face in metal hands, never to feel again, and Larry, unable to shrug anything off, is healing slowly. 

 

In this world, in a time far, far, far away from this one, Cliff lays in Larry’s small bed, and Larry lays on Cliff. Larry’s tracing shapes into Cliff’s chest, and Cliff’s hand hovers over Larry’s waist.

 

“Say it again,” Larry asks.

 

Cliff chuckles, warm and fuzzy. “I love you, I mean it.” 

 

“Thank you,” Larry says, holding Cliff a little tighter. 

 


End file.
